1/9/14 Amiri

                                       "float flat magic in low changing   

                                       evenings. Shiver your hands

                                       in dance. Empty all of me for

                                       knowing, and will the danger   

                                       of identification..."

- Amiri Baraka "The New World"

 

may your words color the minds of a thousand 

blank stares.  may they rest inside keyholes and 

deadbolts, to rust and break. may your words

stick in craws, lodge themselves under sensitive

gumlines, and force careful extraction from any mouth.

may you write with a thousand hands, a thousand 

pens from a thousand schoolhouses caging frustration

and anger. may you speak with a thousand voices 

from rooftops and jail cells, from coffeeshops and 

podiums, from the muffled scream of triumph or 

hatred or fear or joy into the palm of a hand to hold 

for all time.

1/8/14

Miles and I have an ongoing feud regarding who can make the best dinosaur noises.  Usually this competition takes place in the car after dropping Isla off at school, because she can't abide by the noisiness of it all.  Today, Miles upped his game to a whole new level with some high pitched nasal screech that my vocal chords can't compete with.  In truth, my guttural growling roars sound pretty tame now - which makes the competitor in me furious.  I will be channeling my inner ultrasaurus bellow soon.  Just you wait, Miles. 


Speaking of dinosaurs, Isla's latest thrift store appropriation is nothing short of genius.  It must be seen to be appreciated. 

1/6/13

Isla and Miles were both saintly today.  I woke up to Miles nuzzling against my neck, saying "Daddy cuddle,"  Isla had been awake for an hour or so and already made herself cheerios, and washed the bowl.  She immediately grabbed Miles and played legos with him while I drank coffee and sat by the fire to regain my senses. 

When I asked what Isla wanted to do for the day, she suggested going to Ventura to go thrift store shopping.  I promptly decided that this was the best idea I'd ever heard and said I needed to change Miles, give him some yogurt for breakfast, and we'd head out.  While I did that, Isla MADE HER OWN LUNCH!!! I swear I'm not making this up.   Then, she got some water for miles and herself and we headed out. 

She found a Mother Goethel doll from "Tangled" for $.99, and bought some dinosaurs for Miles with her chore money too, then we went to the park, and played for a good hour or so and ate lunch.  On the way home, we all sang ridiculous versions of Christmas carols with invented lyrics.  One was about zombies, it was fabulous. 

At home, Miles fell asleep for his nap in less than 2 minutes, as Isla listened to Percy Jackson on cd in her room.  Then, we broke out the thrift store painting I bought so Isla could start her new series of awesome alterations to bad paintings.  Tegan brought dinner home on her way from work, and God Damn if this wasn't a great Monday!

1/5/14

Today I sat on a rock,
surrounded by oak and pepper trees
splayed like a errant hand
and watched a hawk
dip and turn into the brush,
silent as time. 

He returned in one motion,
claws clutching a stunned
squirrel - it's tail pinwheeling
against the backhand slap blue
of the sky. 

He made a meal of the rodent
on an oak branch above my head,
intestines spattering the rock
like heiroglyphs.

If I could read them, I think
they might say something
about temporality,

If I could read them
I might dissappear.

1/4/14

The new year brought a DJ gig at the Jester again - which last year added up to a handful of people in the place, since New Years was on a weekday... same thing happened again this year, although I did approach the situation with a different attitude.  Instead of being upset and annoyed at the situation, I just decided to have a little bit of fun with it, so the Wild Stallions mixed Diplo with Brittney Spears, Cee Lo and Ace of Base all night long.  On top of that, we got to go home early and still got paid, it's all good in Ojai. 

Miles has been on a tear as of late, tantrums average one every two hours, which is almost impossible to handle, but I decided to make a timeout jar today... since I'm approaching everything with a new attitude and all.  This thing is pretty rad.  It's a jar filled with water and glitter glue, which you shake up and wait for the glitter to swirl and settle - it's totally mesmerizing and hopefully soothing for toddler minds.  We'll see tomorrow.  Or in two hours, whichever tantrum takes hold. 

New year, new try.

1/2/14

I made myself another promise, to devote 30 minutes a day to writing, regardless of how it looks.  I've done this in the past, obviously the year of writing being the most successful, but I need to reset my routine to include something so necessary. 

My daughter Isla is 5.  This scares me, because I don't have a clear distinction between 4 and 5, or 3 and 4 for that matter - time is one of those things that makes absolutely no sense the older I get.  It does not seem to bother her, however, as she is coasted beautifully through her toddler and preschool years.  As of now she is completely obsessed with learning - Greek myths, how flying works, what the hell a sea anemone is good for... she needs to know.  I like to make up stories that have sort of true things in them, which makes for interesting conversations because she can smell my bologna from a mile away when I'm working on a half-truth.  It's fun.

Today was all about the beach.  We saw some tidepools and carefully walked around the anemones, hermit crabs and starfish.  We even found a dead skate - which smelled worse than my bologna.  I really like the word bologna.  When searching for sea creatures got old, we did what any self respecting Californian would do in the middle of winter:  we went swimming.  Or, I should say, Miles went swimming on accident, got sand stuck up his nose and in his ears, and then caterwauled all the way back up the 99 stairs (Isla counted) to the car.  Dad should have brought a towel.  I mean it was the beach.  Come on dad.

I am loving southern California in wintertime, though.  I kind of forgot what cold is. 
 

HAWAII part 1

       I'm back in Kauai, HI for my third trip.  I've been with Tegan on our honeymoon, with Tegan and Isla when she was a year old, and now with Miles too.  I f***ing love this place.  Since Tegan and I are big ballers now, we rented a place right on the water.  Literally.  I can open my doors and look right out into the water. 

Our flight was pretty uneventful, with only minor tragedies, like forgetting that the DVD player brought to entertain the kids has no battery capabilities, and I slept possibly one hour the night before, but nothing a seasoned stay at home dad like myself can't handle.  So, we arrived in Kapa'a around 4, got to the house - and I went out to Safeway to get stuff for dinner and the rest of the week. 

Groceries in Hawaii are ridiculous.  I got some milk, coffee, eggs, cereal, peanutbutter, bread, snacks, a six pack of beer, and some chicken along with a couple other things and spent 160.00 - Daaaaaaaaang.  It might be cheaper to eat out.    Oh well.  After dinner we pretty much all passed out from jet lag. 

The next day we woke up at 5, watched the sun rise from our amazing porch with coffee, and relaaaaaaxed.   In the morning, we went for a walk and found a Tahitian Dance festival going on, so posted up there until the afternoon. Then it was time for a jaunt to the venerable and historic institution of Wal-Mart for a stroller to push Milesy around in.  Pizza for dinner, some shave ice and back to the house. 

Disappointment

7/28/13

My daughter is a really good girl.  Before today, we've never had to actually go to the step of punishment - just the threat has been enough.  Today however, she snuck and ate candy in her room, we caught her, called her on it, then told her she'd not be able to have dessert for the week if she did it again.  Not fifteen minutes later, we found her in her room, door closed, scarfing down a pack of mentos that she had recovered from the trash can of all places.  Self Control, girl!  Anyway, this was especially difficult, because her best friend had invited her over for ice cream after watching a youth production of "Annie"  at a local theater, and we had to tell them no because of the whole candy situation.  There were tears and sobs abound, of course.  To make matters worse, when we went to the play, they were sold out - and it was the last performance.  Isla had been talking about seeing this play for the last month.  Double disappointment and epic breakdown in front of the theater.  I know that this is one of those teachable moments about life and fairness and all that, but there's something pretty heartbreaking about seeing your child experience her first real let down at your hands.  At least we have the DVD and a huge screen with projector for our own performance tonight.


Meanwhile, on the Miles front, while we waited to see if we could get in due to any no-shows for Annie, our little guy went on a dinosaur hunt under the oleander bushes.  After roaring to himself for a few minutes, he actually ended up scaring himself so badly that he rushed out screaming.  From then on, he'd pace in front of the bushes shaking his head and saying "no rawr, no rawr."  This was a day for lessons, apparently.

Foreborn

You first found him under the bed at age 12. 
Too seasoned to be scared by boogeymen,
you watched him watch you with dust-mote
eyes and a vacant smile.  He dissappeared
like sunspots every time you looked, so you
trained your sight to slacken and unfocus.
Awash in grey, your childhood became pixelated.

He grew bold as you aged, moving to your
pocket with the lint and worry-stones, biting
your nails as you reached for subway change,
for the keys to your first apartment, for
condoms.  People noticed your fingers,
bitten to the quick, and commented on hygiene
and dirty habits.  "We all have them,"  You said.

He sat on your shoulder during the wedding,
teeth like broken fifths of gin clacking in your
ear as you spoke your own vows.
His talons left bruises that looked like rings
on the rise of your shoulders, and you cringed
with every clink of every champagne flute.

When you cried flower petal tears
at the birth of your daughter, he
climbed into your throat.  There,
he took up residence in your vocal
chords, playing them with crooked claws,
a master harpist.  Everyone says you
sounded Just Like Him sometimes.

You tried burning him out, leaving
filterless Malboro Light cigarettes
smoldering on your tongue while you slept,
your bedroom smoke detector became
a lullabye, and you slept through your own funeral.

For someone who never believed in Heaven,
you sure looked nice next to those constellations.
Dressed head to toe in white, you shone like a
proud moon, hung against the suffocating darkness.
Draped in silence, where the voice inside you can
finally speak with its own timbre, echoing from the
stars like a soft rain. 

Wheels

I

There was something about
that concrete and metal.
That wood and polyurethane.
Our blood, billowing in our veins
would rush like fools to our heads.

What else could explain this compulsion
to hurl ourselves off tops of staircases,
down rusted handrails into oncoming traffic
like our mortality was a bothersome fly.

And we flew.  Raw palmed and scabby
elbowed, we flew.  Seven-ply maple
wings and grip tape parachutes, we
launched ourselves off ledges like the
ground didn't exist.  We slid and flipped
and lived
and flew. Our bodies, our boards ever once
contemplating the landing.

II

He sits now, immobile in his chair,
legs longing for the vibrations
carried from street to chest.
He used to ride the asphalt until
his feet were blistered and bloody,
These days he tires easily - even
speaking can wear him down.
When it does, he talks in the language
of pavement cracks and parking lots.
His voice swerves in and out of the traffic
in our conversation.

He was the best of us once,
that concave deck seemed an extension
of his body - we'd watch him in disbelief,
360 degrees and straight up like his
lungs were filled with helium.  He'd
laugh his way back to earth.

He still laughs,
his eyes burnished blue, speech clear,
recounting broken bones,
looping wooden waves
and the jettisoning of gravity.

He tells me in hindsight
that the click of the wheels
connecting back to pavement
is the jaws of a beast closing,
is finite, is the almost imperceptible
click of a minute hand falling into place.

His body no longer measures time
in movements, it is a prison of
deteriorating muscle and tendon.
I wonder when he dreams,
does his blood still bloom,
do those peripheral nerves still
send their broken signals
to push, to connect, to fly.

III

I'm skateboarding circles in my driveway,
can feel my age in each flex and turn.
My knees crackle and complain as they loosen.

I hold my son in one arm, and we ride,
around, and around, and around.  He
is mesmerized by the shush of the wheels
on concrete, interrupted by each crack
in a rhythm like the pulsing in his veins -

it is familiar. He laughs when the wind
is in our faces, he likes its playful touch.
And when it is at our back, the wind
whispers of quickening blood and wood,
of polyurethane and gravity,
the wind whispers of flight.

25/30

4/25/13

Rewrite for Deathbed


I'd never seen a deathbed before.
It looked like any other kind of bed, I guess,
except for the sterile green hospital sheets.

I'd seen plenty of them, too - just none with
my grandmother on top, laying on her left side
because the shattered remains of her right hip
couldn't support her weight.
she was a bag of broken glass and whispers,
When we talked, I had to kneel down right
next to her face -
her ribs had punctured her lungs, and it made it hard to speak;


She fell trying to change the channel on the television,
never could figure out that damn remote -  her old
bones had simply said: "enough."

At First we laughed about it, she said "Baby bear,
I told you, that TV is evil!"  Then, her laughing
turned to fits of coughing, her face got dark red
and stern and she said "I'm sick."

I said "I know, Grandma."
 
and she said, "Be true, it's worth it."

I said "what?"

and she said "I love you."

I'll be damned if I ever really knew what those words meant
before they were her last utterances to me.

and I'll be damned if I ever really meant those words before
I echoed them back to her.

she closed her eyes, lay back,
her brow smoothing like ripples dissipating
in a pond, and that was it.

I didn't know it, but she'd never speak again.

and as I left the hospital room, I wasn't thinking of her broken body,
no.  Her words began to weave themselves into melody, the melody rhythmically telling me
things I should have already known.

If it takes death to release these feelings then something's gotta give - so it might as well be me to interpret the words my grandmother deserves to have spoken, her half broken body forgotten when you're lost in the sounds.

C'mon now people got to live for the moment can't you speak every word like it was your last breath.

C'mon now people got to live for the moment can't you speak every word like it was your last breath.

and what would you say if you knew your time was
limited to simply minutes
would you spit a few definitive sentences
or begin some sentimental sentiments full of derivative bullshhhhhhhhhh
or would you just lie silent, and pass on
or pass on
truth, knowledge, history, religion, tales, hell just say something

cause I got the ghosts of million people behind me who have never been heard... some were
never given voices but of those that were:
nobody listened. But my grandmother christened me permissively with her last words
passwords into my soul where they live as legacy egging me on & making me stronger
with every poem.

See this is an oral tradition, these words keep us from being alone,
I will join voices with my grandmother and those singing from the marrow in our bones
standing on roof tops shouting down the unknown,
I will grow my own garden from the seeds she has sewn
My lungs are her instrument, this chest is her home:
So we say:

Come on now people got to live for the moment cant you speak every word like it was your last breath

24/30

4/24/13

He is flipping pages of
a board book on the carpet
at my feet, cooing at the
images:  Red ladybug,
blue tractor, yellow sunflower,
green apple, orange fish.

Each of these is a revalation,
each a universe unfolding:
green leaf, yellow bird.

His eyes are bright, his
finger points like he's
trying to skewer the pages:
blue hat, black kitten.
He holds the book over
his head, triumphant:
Red tomato, white puppy.

He leans back, too far -
the book launches behind
as he giggles at the ceiling.

23/30

4/23/13

I've never seen him without
sunglasses, he wears snakebite piercings
and insolent swagger like manganese steel,
his smile twists sarcastic at the corners
of lips designed for raillery; he jokes
like someone who's never seen the
inside of concrete cages; he revels
like his veins are clean.

Seventeen with a backpack full of
vodka, headphones sprout from his
ears, a wall - twin parapets for keeping
it all out, for piece of mind. He's been
in four times now, for everything.
He wears his time like an expensive watch,
though now, when the corners of his mouth
fall, ever so slightly, and the lights
reflected in his aviators travel down and
get caught in his throat, I think
he might be wishing for wormholes,
he might believe time means something
completely different when it's in his hand.

22/30

4/22/13

Villanelle for Bukowski


Pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin,
each black mark a wound reopened, a throe -
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

When sleeping and fucking and eating wear thin,
 find smoke and oak, dim lights to lay low -
pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin

Shaded windows belie the comfort within
eyes downcast, only concerned with what's low
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

Stumble home sated and smelling of sin
collapse at the desk, a welcome plateau
Pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin

Sun creeps through the window when one must begin
sets the amber liquid in the tumbler aglow - 
verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

rare moments when one feels safe in his skin,
the rushing and splashing of laced blood below
pen scratches the page leaking whiskey and gin,
yet verses come easy when rooms start to spin.

21/30

4/21/13

They gave me life,
a test tube bastard,
an engineered seed.
My leaves grew over
these golden ears like
green lullabies.
I could almost pretend
I was real, could almost
believe I had purpose.

Even in the threshing
I was gratified
My kernels bursting
with sugar, starched
in my Sunday best,
how proud and tall I stood.
How innocent the concept,
how naive my roots:
nourish the world
they told me,
you were built for this.

The journey to plate was
dark. Jostling. Uneventful
but for the design imprinted
on the very proteins of my
chromosomes...
I felt an anticipation there,
a longing.  How wonderful
to be needed, how incredible
to be named salvation.
My brothers and I heroic
kernels in this calvary -
riding forth in boxes and
trains and 18 wheelers we
were angelic deliverers
warriors against hunger;
husked paladins and silken
saints.

When I arrived tumbling
into the dust from the bin; peace left.
there was expectation
creasing those faces.
Dependance showed through
paper skin like bones -
Distended bellies screaming
a tortured chorus.

I realized too late,
as my masticated flesh
became bolus, as peristalsis
and churning broke me down
to my base elements, enzymes
refusing to hold me, villi warring
with glucose - I was not taken up
I am charlatan sustenance
I am not real.

I am frankenstein's monsanto.
I am an empty promise
I am the lining in a fat man's pocket.
I am technology, the future,
I am a vengeful God with a deflated heart,
I am soulless fodder for an abandoned world.
My brothers desecrate hallowed fields
insurmountably.

You made me this.
I am in your image.
My reach surpasses that which I grasp,
I am empty handed,
A cob pipe, smoldering.